


Blood, Charcoal, Verdigris

by Hocchikisu



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Aphrodisiacs, Blood Magic, Bondage, Dehumanization, Enemas, M/M, Multi, Sex Magic, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hocchikisu/pseuds/Hocchikisu
Summary: As a slave to a member of the cruel and powerful Crimson Guild, Silas has suffered much to bolster his Master's power. When he unexpectedly changes hands and becomes the property of two unusual young mages, he's put to a somewhat different use.
Relationships: Mage/Mage/New Slave They Inherited
Comments: 11
Kudos: 102
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Blood, Charcoal, Verdigris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chicago_ruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicago_ruth/gifts).



> Happy Nonconathon, and hope you enjoy!

Twelve days had passed since Master left the tower.

Silas had never been left to himself for so long before; not since he'd become a slave. He'd forgotten what it was like to live without fresh pain. But however long Master's absence stretched on, Silas's daily routes remained unchanged.

He rose at dawn from his bed of sackcloth and straw, splashed water on his face, pulled on his short red tunic. He took up his broom and swept the winding spiral stairs. He beat at the plush red carpets and plump red armchairs in Master's quarters. In the library, he carefully dusted the tops of those books he was permitted to touch: only the ones bound in dull maroon, and never the ones bound in fierce scarlet.

The only room he never entered was the bleeding chamber.

Silas listened, as he worked, for the groan of the doors at the base of the tower. Ten strong men and a battering ram could never have budged them, but they would swing wide at only a brush from Master's wizened finger. If Silas caught the sound of the doors as soon as they opened, and was already running before they'd shut, he'd stand half a chance of having Master's bath ready in time.

Such was the sort of creature two years in the collar had made of him.

Silas's most hated daily chore was tending to Master's orbs of power. Master kept them in a narrow room at the very top of the tower, cradled upon stands of artfully twisted iron wire. The orbs were wrought of clear glass, with restless threads of liquid red writhing ceaselessly within them. Some were as small as the marbles Silas had played with as a boy (a prick to the finger), others so great he could not lift them (his back split open, three nights of agony). All needed polishing daily, to keep fog or grime from obscuring the bright glass.

Why? Because Master liked to look at them, Silas supposed. If there was one true love all mages shared, across every Guild, from the lowliest novice to the Archmagus herself, it was basking in the proof of their power. By tapping into the energy stored within those orbs, a mage might heal the wounded, or summon rainclouds to salvage parched crops, or reduce a well-armored man to a pool of melted steel.

Silas, for his part, often imagined what it would be like to roll one of the larger orbs to the window and push it out. Watch it fall, storey after storey, until it shattered on the rocks below and bled out red.

Silas was in the middle of polishing an orb, his mind utterly empty, when he felt the floorboards shudder beneath his feet, and heard a noise like a faint thunderclap. That would be the doors; it was impossible to hear them open when he was this high up, but when they closed, it shook the tower from top to bottom. He threw his rag aside and scrambled from the room, though he knew he was already too late.

Then a faint snatch of laughter echoed up the stairwell, freezing Silas in his tracks.

He'd spent twelve days alone in this tower. How long since he'd heard anyone laugh aloud? Two long years. Silas no longer knew what to make of such a thing.

Following the laughter came the sound of two voices twining together: a bright one that questioned and a sharper one that answered. Both voices belonged to men. Neither voice belonged to Master.

This tower was Master's private sanctum. He brought in favored novices on occasion, who slunk on red-slippered feet to the library, and were not allowed to touch Silas. On rare occasions, Master entertained his equals in the Crimson Guild; they would drink wine and trade favors, while Silas trembled in some dark corner and prayed that he wouldn't be summoned. No guests had ever come while Master was away. But the doors had opened for them. They must be welcome here.

Someone was steadily climbing the stairs, his heavy boots scraping at the stone. Silas retreated back into the orb chamber, where he was cornered. It didn't occur to him to drop to his knees until a shadow was already at the threshold. Then Silas came back to himself all at once, buckling violently, pressing palms and forehead to the floor.

Master or not, in a mage's presence, a slave knelt.

"What's this? And here I thought I heard a rat, creeping about in the rafters." Silas had only the visitor's voice to judge him by. It was warm and full of amused curiosity; this was surely the man who'd laughed. The toe of a boot nudged beneath Silas's chin. "Let's see you, then. Don't be shy."

There was nothing to do but obey. Now Silas could also judge the man by the hem of his robe. It was cut short, tailored for the sort of mage who was often obliged to travel by foot and resented any constraint to his stride. Silas could even catch a flash of the trousers tucked into the man's boots.

But all that truly mattered was that the robe was green. It was a deep blue green, the color of verdigris, trimmed with thread of gleaming gold. Green was not red. It was the color favored by the Alchemists' Guild, those mages who drew their power from crushed herbs and strange salts, from mixing substances together or purifying them with vitriol.

Harmless, Silas was tempted to think, even though he knew better.

"Oh, you are a pretty one, aren't you? Such bright blue eyes," the mage said, giving an approving hum. Silas's gaze rose still further, despite the risk. He discovered a bronzed and handsome face of less than thirty years, topped by a shock of chestnut hair. The mage was either unbothered by Silas's impudent stare, or failed to notice it at all; he was already turning back towards the doorway.

"Ocha!" he called, his cry echoing ten times over in the stairwell. " _Ochamond_! Up here! I've made quite a find!"

There was an indistinct reply from below, and soon there was a second shadow at the door, a second mage standing shoulder to the shoulder with the first. This one had a heavy black brow and a dark head, his hair short and thick and sleek as a mink's pelt. He carried a staff and was clad all in black, from his high-collared robe to his snakeskin shoes. Sensing at once that this was not a mage to be tested, Silas pressed his face to the floor all over again.

Which Guild was it that wore black? Black wasn't red, any more than green was, but Silas couldn't manage to recall anything else. He'd lost so much knowledge since he'd been collared; none of it mattered much to him anymore, until it suddenly did.

"Ah. This must be the slave." The black-robed mage spoke with cold, clipped precision. Ocha, the other had named him. Ochamond.

"What, you knew of him?" asked the green-robed mage. He sounded somewhat put out.

"He was listed among the possessions of note." There was a rustling of parchment. "An intact male, born in the 6th year of the reign of Archmagus Amantha, branded and collared in the 25th year. Free of disease and of robust health..."

"Why didn't you tell me your uncle kept a slave?"

"I never imagined you'd be interested."

Silas's mind was working furiously. So the black-robed mage was a relation of Master; that would explain how these outsiders had found their way to this sanctum. Something hard and narrow tapped against Silas's shoulder, shaking him from his thoughts. He'd caught a blow from Ochamond's staff, but a light one, meant more to draw attention than to cause pain.

"Sit up. On your heels," the mage ordered, and Silas did so. The way that Ochamond glowered at him still made him shiver, but the other mage and the orbs that lined the walls received the exact same ill-tempered look. It might even be the natural arrangement of the man's face, which was a youthful one, behind the ever-present scowl. He was not so much older than Silas.

"Do you know who I am?" Ochamond asked. Silas's throat worked, the words stuck somewhere within. Ochamond struck him again on the shoulder, harder than before. "Speak."

"No, magus," Silas managed. His voice was thin with disuse.

"Do you know why I'm here?"

"No, magus."

"How could he?" interjected the green-robed mage. "Do you think the courts sent the poor thing a notice by drake-post?"

"Hycath. Hush." Ochamond's frown deepened, and he hit Silas a third time, for no reason that could be fathomed, long before the sting of the last blow had faded.

"The one you knew as your Master is no more," Ochamond announced. "I am his lawful heir. All his holdings and property have been entrusted to me, to do with as I see fit. That includes you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, magus." Certainly, Silas had heard him. He also didn't want to be hit again, and to answer "no" would guarantee that. But Ochamond might as well have just told him that the clouds had traded places with the sea, for all that Silas truly understood. The mage arched an eyebrow at him, his frown deepening, and Silas realized his error in the very nick of time.

"Master. Yes, Master," Silas stammered out. Ochamond let out a huff, sharing a glance with the grinning Hycath that might have meant anything.

"Stand up," Ochamond ordered next. Silas barely managed to get himself upright, his knees wobbling. "Strip."

Silas swallowed, then started to reach towards the hem of his tunic, moving as slowly as he dared. It wasn't his body, in itself, that he resented revealing; it did a slave no good to cling to modesty. But no one who gazed on Silas naked could have any doubt of what he was, or of how much had been taken from him. His slavery had been inscribed into his flesh.

Having braced himself, Silas pulled off his tunic in a few quick jerks; he wore nothing at all beneath it. Hycath gave a low gasp, followed by a whistle. His face burning, Silas lowered his head, his shoulders trembling beneath the weight of his humiliation.

The brand was what he hated most, the terrible dark rune: it meant _no one_ in the old tongue, or so his trainers had told hm. That brand was the root of all Silas suffered, a symbol that he was now less than human, less even than a beast of burden.

But there were also the countless thin, pale scars that covered his stomach and chest, curling almost delicately around his nipples, forming an intricate, spidery spiral around the middle of his belly. His thighs were a mess of more careless criss-crossed marks, two of them still dark, not true scars yet. Between his legs, his cock hung like a now unnecessary ornament, seeming so much smaller with its thatch of hair burned away for good.

"Ah. So that's what he was for," Hycath said, in a voice now somewhat subdued.

"What else?" Ochamond cast a meaningful look about the room, at the gleaming glass orbs and the restless threads of crimson stored within.

"He was running loose when I found him. With that face, I took him for a sort of pet."

Ochamond said nothing in response. His eyes were moving methodically across Silas's body, assessing him from top to bottom, lingering no longer on the brand or on his fear-shrunken cock than on any other part of him.

"Turn," he said. Silas was grateful at first, not to have to look at the two mages while they looked at him; his gratitude lasted until he heard one of them step in close and had no way of knowing which.

"Beautiful work," Hycath murmured. It must be him, then. A cool, gloved hand caressed the nape of Silas's neck, then ran all the way down his back, coming to rest at the indent at the base of his spine. Silas shuddered and bit at his lip. His back was likely even more heavily scarred than his front, though he had only a vague idea of the patterns it bore.

"I'd sooner call it crude," said Ochamond. Then Silas was prodded by something even colder than the finger, following in the same path; it was the tip of the staff. "Even for blood magic. Most of these designs have no ritual significance."

"You're as hopeless as ever, Ocha. What about beauty for beauty's sake?"

"It has no place in magecraft," Ochamond said with a snort. "And I doubt the buyers at auction will share your tastes. Though I suppose anything that bleeds should fetch a fair sum."

"What? You're not going to sell him! You can't!" Hycath clamped a possessive arm around Silas's waist. The man had a strength better suited to an ox-driver than an alchemist, and handled Silas as if he were an over-sized rag doll, wrenching him bodily about so that they both faced Ochamond.

"What use do I have for a slave?" asked Ochamond, his arms folded and his gaze like black ice.

"I can think of a fair few!" Hycath protested. "He's young, he's intact, he must have a perfectly serviceable hole!" Silas flinched, feeling as if his heart had plunged straight into his stomach. Even Ochamond was clearly startled. Shock smoothed out his harsh features, making him seem more like a man than a mage, if only for an instant.

"I have you for that," he muttered, and Hycath let out his loudest laugh yet.

"Oi! And see if you keep me, with that kind of talk!"

Ochamond shook his head, but he'd begun to examine Silas all over again, in a way that was not quite so detached as before. His throat dry with an entirely new kind of fear, Silas shook within Hycath's grasp. He should have been better prepared for this. But Master--his former Master--had aged beyond most physical lusts, and Silas had grown accustomed to being handled as little more than a vessel for blood.

" _Ocha_ _,"_ Hycath said, sighing heavily. "You know I love you dearly. But I do have my limits. Physically, I mean." He abruptly shoved Silas aside, returning to Ochamond. Then the two seemed to fold together; it took Silas a moment to realize that Hycath had caught Ochamond in an embrace, slotting his chin neatly over the other man's shoulder.

Though he had his own hide to concern himself with, Silas was still shocked at the sight. Mages did not touch each other like that, nor did they ever say anything like, 'I love you dearly,' even as a jest. Such open displays of sentiment were deeply frowned upon.

But who was there to know what they did together? Only a slave, who would tell no one.

"Imagine not having to hold back for my sake," came Hycath's low purr. "It'll be sublime. Come, let's try him. As a lark. Or rather--an experiment!"

"...Fine. We'll see how he fares." Ochamond's response, begrudging though it was, crushed Silas's last remaining bit of hope.

"Yes!" Hycath squeezed Ochamond tighter, beaming with an almost boyish glee. "Oh, this will be such fun!"

"But later." Ochamond elbowed him away. "Give me a chance to get settled in." He shot Silas an even darker look than usual, as if irritated to discover that he'd failed to vanish like a familiar in a puff of smoke the very instant he was no longer wanted. Silas flinched in anticipation of yet another blow, but this time, Ochamond only brushed the cool tip of his staff against Silas's cheek.

"Where did my uncle keep you when you weren't in use?" the mage asked.

"Master...my former Master." Silas sucked in a breath. He must get a hold of himself. "Granted me a corner of the storeroom. Off the kitchen."

"Go there and wait, then."

Silas took one small step towards the door, then hesitated. Did Ochamond truly want him to go as he was, still naked, or had he simply forgotten to order Silas to dress? Silas cast his eyes down at his tunic, hoping that either mage might catch the hint.

There was a sharp bang as Ochamond brought down the end of his staff on the floorboards.

" _Go_ _,_ slave!" he barked.

Silas went.

* * *

This new Master might mark a change in Silas's fortune for the better.

He wasn't trying to console himself, as he sat curled atop his bedding, his ragged scrap of a blanket tucked around his shoulders for warmth. The two mages would hurt him. They would hurt him because it amused them, or simply because the pain of a slave was beneath their notice.

But neither of them wore red.

An alchemist would have nothing to gain from a bleeding. And as for Ochamond...Silas remembered now. Black was the only color a mage with no allegiance at all could wear without causing offense. Well, whatever Ochamond might have done to make even the lowliest of Guilds reject him, he'd seen no use for Silas aside from sexual release.

Though once Silas might have taken any fate over being forced to service a mage, now he thought of the tower's sumptuous bedroom. It had a great four poster bed, swaddled in the finest red silks, its mattress plump with goose down.

Better to be fucked hard on a soft bed than strapped to the bleeding table--screaming into a wad of cotton, the magic searing through his veins and stealing away his life, until the pain was so great that he fell into darkness--a cloth soaked in foul liquid pressed against his nose, reviving him so that he could suffer still more--

If, either way, he would be reduced to a desperate, writhing body--

Silas pressed his knuckles to his forehead, overcome by a sickening wave of self-loathing. A ragged noise escaped him, half a laugh and half a dry sob. Whenever he thought that he could sink no lower, his Masters found some new way to make him debase himself.

And all as penance for a crime that hadn't even been his own. His father was the one who'd plotted against the Archmagus, or so it was claimed; Silas was far beyond caring as to the truth of the charge. As penalty for insurrection, the traitor and all his living kin had been stripped of their names, collared and branded, reshaped into mere tools. In this way, they might at least be _usefu_ _l_ : both as sources of energy, and as warnings to any who might question the right of mages to rule over all of mankind.

A slave such as Silas was not meant to even remember what he'd once been. The trainers were thorough, and skilled in their craft. But somehow, through all their torments and punishments, Silas had held onto his name, in his secret heart of hearts. He was still himself.

For all the good it had ever done him.

Silas spent several long hours like this, allowing hope and dread and hate to pull him first one way and then the next. When at last one of the mages approached the storeroom, he had some difficulty schooling his expression. Pretending to be eager was beyond him, but he did at least manage a blank and stupid look as Hycath pushed his way inside.

The alchemist had shed his fine green robe, and now padded about barefoot in only a simple knit shirt and trousers, a leather satchel slung across his chest. The only remaining proof that he was a mage at all was in his casual air of command.

"Come," he said, crooking a finger. "Ocha's busy getting ready for you. Let's get you ready for him."

Not knowing exactly what he meant, Silas followed Hycath with considerable unease. Their destination was the cleansing chamber only a short way down the corridor. Here there was a drain on the floor, a slatted wooden bench, and a stone reservoir Silas had filled with fresh water only that morning.

Of course. Silas had always been made to scrub himself thoroughly to prepare for a bleeding; he would have to do the same before his new Master fucked him. Mages were, as a whole, a fastidious breed.

Hycath took a seat on the bench, then patted the empty spot at his side, almost like he was beckoning Silas to join him there. Silas cautiously approached, but did not sit, which proved to be the right choice.

"Kneel down," Hycath ordered. Silas knelt, his pulse quickening. "Arms straight out. There you go--you aren't nearly as dim as Ocha thinks, are you?" Using a combination of gestures and guiding nudges, Hycath arranged Silas exactly to his taste. Silas ended up grasping the far edge of the bench, his knees slightly parted and his chin hovering right between his hands.

Observing how Silas's arms and shoulders shook, both from fear and from the strain of being so unnaturally bent, Hycath sighed and reached within his satchel for a pair of thin leather straps. These he deftly threaded through the slats of the bench, binding Silas's wrists into place. Silas forced himself to remain as still as he could. Whatever Hycath intended to do next, resisting would only make it worse.

Hycath dipped into his satchel again, retrieving what seemed at first like a small waterskin, with a flexible tube dangling from the end of it. Silas had to crane his neck painfully to the side to get a good look, which attracted Hycath's notice. The mage smiled at him, shaking his head and wagging a finger, and then he laid a heavy hand on the back of Silas's head, pushing it down against the bench. But Silas knew what he had seen, and despite the cool damp of the room, he felt his face begin to burn.

Such pouches were used by healers to pump water into the gut, cleansing the patient of illness and impurity. This was a fastidiousness that went beyond all his expectations. Silas had taken such treatments before, but never on his knees like this, never tied down, never at the hands of a mage who whistled tunelessly as he continued his preparations, heedless of Silas's shivering.

Silas's only warning before it began was a light pat to the buttock. Then came the cold, slick finger prodding between his cheeks; still gloved, and well-coated with oil. Silas flinched and unconsciously strained against his bonds, the bench rocking a bit beneath him. That earned him a stinging slap to the hip.

After circling Silas's hole a few more times, Hycath withdrew his hand. What replaced it was narrower than the finger had been, but smooth and unyielding. A nozzle, perhaps one carved from bone. Hycath wriggled it against Silas's hole, trying first one angle and then another without success.

"Oh, you _are_ tight," Hycath murmured, and then he chuckled as the nozzle finally slid inside, drawing a hiccuping whimper from Silas. The oil eased the thing's passage, and there was hardly any pain at all once the rounded tip had passed his rim, but it was still foreign. He wanted it out.

And then the liquid began to flow into him, and Silas forgot all else.

It was painfully cold, like a finger of ice stroking at his defenseless core. Silas bit his lip, his hole tensing reflexively around the nozzle, as if he could somehow stem the tide. It was no use. The assault continued, filling him beyond his limit; whenever it seemed like it must stop, that it was impossible for such a small pouch to have anything left in it, still more gushed inside him, until his abdomen felt taut and painfully swollen.

Wracked with cramps, Silas kept hold of himself only by looking forward. Soon, very soon, he would have relief; he just had to endure a little longer. A little longer. Already, Hycath was tugging at the nozzle. Most of its length slipped easily back out, but once only the tip remained, the mage paused.

"When I take this out," Hycath said. "You're going to hold it all in. Until I give the word, you'd better not spill a drop." He said it lightly, almost teasingly, but when it came from a mage, there was no such thing as an idle threat.

"Did you hear me?" Hycath asked, giving the nozzle a twist, tormenting the rim of Silas's hole. "What are you going to do?"

"Hold it." Silas's voice was a feeble, cracked whine. "I'll hold it in, magus."

"That's right." Hycath jerked the nozzle out of him, and Silas went rigid. He pressed his knees sharply together and clutched desperately at the side of the bench, the wood digging painfully into his palms. It worked; somehow, he was able to keep himself clenched tight. So long as he stayed perfectly still, the worst of the pain even faded. It was like there was a cold, heavy stone inside him, weighing him down, but it wasn't so terrible. It wasn't so terrible--

Hycath ruined it all by stroking Silas's shoulders, giving him such a start that he nearly lost all control. The mage's gloved hands, which still bore traces of oil, left a strange heat in their wake. It must be because Silas was so very cold. Moving slowly down Silas's back, Hycath deliberately rubbed his scars, keeping him constantly flinching, shifting, squirming, so that the liquid inside him never settled.

"I do love these so," Hycath said, and then he gave a faint and wistful sigh. Even through the gloves, Silas could feel the edge of the mage's nails scraping against the raised edge of the scars. "It's been five years now, I think. Since the day I first saw a bloodletting in the flesh. A banquet and a demonstration, free to novices of every Guild...the Crimson Guild does have to lord it over the rest of us somehow, don't they?"

At first, Silas didn't understand. He was so focused on holding himself back that following a phrase from beginning to end was close to impossible. But Hycath's tone had changed, become almost conversational. He was speaking to Silas as if he were a person. That couldn't be right.

Hycath moved his stroking to Silas's flank, giving him a few pats on the side, jostling his swollen body. With that gesture, it suddenly became clear. So long ago, before the collar, Silas had often caught one of his brothers indulging in the strangest habit. While rubbing down his favorite geldling, he would whisper all manner of stories into the beast's ear.

This was something much the same. Hycath was just talking to himself.

"For the demonstration, they brought out a fresh slave. One that had never been cut before. And who to do the honors, but their most promising new novice?" The fondness that entered Hycath's tone wasn't meant for Silas. He almost wished it was; Silas was so wretched now that he was desperate for any source of warmth.

"He was so young, then. Hardly more than a boy. But so very serious, and so steady of hand. The audience was nothing to him. All he cared for was the magic." Hycath let out another sigh, and withdrew his hand. Silas felt him rise from the bench, and without thinking he gave a desperate whimper, briefly tugging his bonds in an attempt to follow.

"I think I was smitten at first sight," Hycath said, his voice echoing from across the room. "Ocha always looked his best in red. Such a pity they made him give it up."

Red. Red. That was the one word that mattered, and Silas's chest seized up in terror at just the sound of it. He grappled with what he had just heard, trying to make sense of it, but his thoughts were only becoming more and more scattered. Ocha. Ochamond. Master. Red. _Cold_. And then there were fingers tangled in Silas's hair, tilting his face back up. Hycath stood before him, leaning down, wiping sweat-soaked coils of hair away from Silas's eyes and smiling, smiling.

"I can't wait to watch him take you apart, pretty thing," Hycath told him, tousling his hair. But Silas was already coming apart, the chamber spinning in slow circles around him. Silas felt his legs being roughly parted, something solid and round shoved in between his knees before he could close them again.

"All right. I think that's more than enough for you. Let it out. Into the bucket, if you can manage it." The command penetrated Silas's haze. He wanted more than anything to do as he'd been told. But he'd been holding himself taut as a bowstring for so long that he had somehow become stuck that way. Something hard and flat struck him on the ass, a necessary blow. Silas suddenly sagged, the liquid flowing out of him all in a rush.

The sense of release as the pressure relented was the purest and simplest of pleasures; a shiver ran up and down his spine, and Silas couldn't contain his groan. Then there was an unexpected stirring between his legs; the first of such stirrings in two long years. His shock did nothing to dampen the sensation, and Silas had a moment of clarity.

It wasn't water he'd been forced to hold inside, nor was it some purifying herbal mixture. It was a potion, a _poison_ , and even if he'd purged it now, it had seeped into his blood. That was what had brought on the feverish chills, the constant unbearable ache to be touched.

Knowing that a poison was to blame made no difference at all. Silas still shook, feeling as if he were freezing despite the sweat that beaded on his back, yearning for the return of Hycath's teasing fingers. He grit his teeth. The mages could force him to bow and spread his legs. They could play tricks on his mind and body. But they couldn't make him...they couldn't make him...

"Aren't you finished yet?" came a voice, sharp as a lash. Silas turned his head feebly towards the chamber door, struggling to distinguish Ochamond from the shadows; the mage was still thickly shrouded in all his layers of black velvet. Beneath his cold eyes, Silas felt like something truly filthy, and he made a clumsy attempt to angle his body away from the mage's scrutiny.

"Almost done," said Hycath cheerily. A rush of water poured over Silas's head, cold enough to knock the breath out of him. While Silas was still sputtering, Hycath began to scrub at his back and thighs with a brush. He wasn't gentle, but because of the poison, the scraping of the rough bristles across Silas's tingling skin became a different sort of torment.

Ochamond slunk closer, drawing up the hem of his robe as he passed the water pooling on the floor. Just a brief glance at Silas had him grimacing in distaste.

"Those pupils...what have you done to him?" the mage grumbled. "I only asked you to get him clean."

"Well, it seemed a golden opportunity to test out my latest twist on the Lover's Draught--see, that's another thing a slave is good for! Ah, could you untie him for me, Ocha?"

Ochamond muttered an oath as he fiddled for a moment with the tangled straps. Once Silas was free, he still continued to cling, white-knuckled, to the bench, until Hycath hooked a few fingers in his collar and drew him back. Silas lolled within his arms, struggling even to keep his head upright as Hycath rubbed him dry with a cloth. Though Hycath was thorough, his cock, at least was spared. Silas didn't know what would happen if Hycath touched him there, even in this practical way, but thinking about it made him give a small, shameful shudder.

The two mages lifted him between them then; when Silas wobbled on his feet, pitching away from Hycath, Ochamond was there to catch him, his fingers biting deep into the flesh. Silas briefly let his eyes fall shut, letting them guide him. It would be a long climb to the bedroom. But once they were there, they might let him lie on the bed. They might light a fire in the hearth, to ward off this bone-deep chill...

The mages didn't lead him to the central spiral stairs. When Silas next opened his eyes, feeling smooth wooden planks beneath his toes instead of stone, he found himself looking down at a trap door. Hycath pulled it open with a grunt of effort, revealing a dark maw of an opening. Within, as Silas well knew, was another set of stairs that led down, down.

Down to the bleeding chamber beneath the tower.

Silas was too stunned to even be afraid, at first. He let the mages drag him into the blackness, stumbling over every other stair until the magelamps set into the walls flared to life.

The bleeding chamber was a small room, free of ornament; for this was a place of singular purpose. Empty orbs of power were set into hollows in the floor, which were then connected by an intricate spiderweb of markings, drawn onto the bare stone in charcoal. Shelves and racks along its walls held a mage's essential instruments: hooks, needles, bottles of black ink, keen white blades arranged by size. Ochamond broke away to concern himself with these, while Hycath continued to pull Silas along.

At the center of the chamber was the bleeding table, that old and ugly contraption of stained wood and iron gears. It had already been adjusted to receive him: angled slightly upward, the armrests fixed parallel to the table, the stirrups already cranked as far up and as far out at as they could go. The leather straps were splayed apart, ready and waiting--

"Don't," Silas said, and as soon as that single word escaped him, he was struck by a wave of fear and revulsion so strong that he thought he might be sick. He leaned back onto his heels. Perhaps a hundred times before, he'd walked to that same table like a lamb being led to the slaughter, meekly arranging himself beneath the straps. But this time, because his Master had changed, or because of the poison stealing away his reason, or because of some other change deep within--Silas couldn't. No more.

"Don't--please, magus--Master." Silas begged as best he could, his tongue numb and heavy in his mouth. He tried to back away, but Hycath held him fast, giving him a lop-sided smile and a shrug. Then he seized both of Silas's wrists, wrenching him forward and off his feet, flipping him easily onto his back and slamming him onto the table.

" _No_!" Silas screamed, as soon as he had to breathe for it. "Before, you said--you were going to fuck me!" He struggled to sit up, kicking out at random and scrabbling at the splintered wood with his nails. They would hurt him for fighting. The whip, hot iron, spells to scald and blister, all of their carefully measured cruelties. But Silas no longer had it in him to care what they did. Terror had turned him into the sort of mindless animal these mages thought he was.

"Ocha!" Hycath called. He was easily able to pin Silas down with an arm, but he only had two hands, and buckling the straps around Silas's flailing limbs proved impossible. "He's getting lively!" Silas stood even less of a chance against the two of them together. Hycath wrenched his arms and legs into place while Ochamond moved methodically down Silas's body, tightening each thick restraint in turn. There were three straps on the armrests, straps for his ankles and his knees, a belt just under his arms and another for his waist. By the end of it, all he could do was twist his neck and curl his toes.

Now Silas's legs were splayed painfully wide, his hole on full display and the rest of him held stretched and vulnerable. His chest, his belly, and his thighs all formed a pale, quivering canvas. Silas still hadn't stopped his struggles. He bucked against the straps until the leather creaked and the table groaned; he couldn't stand to lie still, however useless it was to fight.

"What's the matter with him?" Ochamond snapped. "Is he having a fit?"

"And he took the clyster so well. Hey, now. What's gotten into you?" Hycath wasn't smiling anymore, but both mages appeared more nonplussed than truly angry, leaning over Silas with their heads pressed together.

"Please no. Anything else!" Silas couldn't stop the babble flowing out of him, any more than he could stop twisting in his bonds. "I'll do anything you want. Fuck me. Please fuck me. My mouth...I'll use my mouth. I'll make you both feel good. I'll take you both! Just don't bleed me!" Maybe the mages had sensed his reluctance to serve. Maybe that was why they had brought him to this place instead of the bedroom.

Maybe they could still change their minds.

"Magus, Master, _please_ \--"

Ochamond, his expression hardening, brought a hand down upon Silas's face. It wasn't a blow; there was no pain, just the leather-clad palm pressed firmly against his mouth. Then Ochamond's grip tightened, two fingers digging painfully into Silas's cheeks, others slipping between his teeth. Silas, even in this wild state, had been trained too well to ever bite. He huffed around the obstruction, the raw taste of the leather and the pressure on his tongue making it hard to breathe.

Ochamond watched him choke with pitiless eyes.

"Gag him," Ochamond said to Hycath, whose smile had returned. "I can't focus with that racket." Ochamond hooked the fingers of his other hand around Silas's upper jaw, prying it open as far as it would go, while Hycath drew a scrap of pure white linen out of his satchel and crushed it into a tight ball. This he shoved into Silas's mouth, pushing it deeper and deeper until it tickled his throat. Then Hycath secured the gag with a second long strip of linen, knotting it right on top of Silas's tongue.

For a few moments Silas did grow still; his throat was blocked, and his struggle to get enough air overrode all else. Ochamond had returned to the grim display of tools, and Silas watched him as best he could through narrowed, teary eyes. From the dozens of implements he selected a slender, fine-edged scalpel.

"Blindfold him as well," Ochamond said, as an afterthought.

 _"No_!" Silas tried to scream, and other things as well, desperate promises to obey, all turned to muffled nonsense by the gag. White cloth fell over his eyes like a shroud. Through the first layer he could still make out shadows passing over him. But Hycath was thorough, wrapping the linen around Silas's head a second and then a third time, plunging him into gray darkness.

Silas tossed his head from side to side like a maddened bull, but there was no jostling either the gag or the tightly wound blindfold. Then he tried to follow the sound of the mages' footsteps, their murmurs, the clatter of their instruments. But these clues were nearly drowned out by Silas's own constant, uncontrollable whimpering.

"His agitation may disrupt the ritual," Ochamond said tightly. "If he moves like that during the more delicate linework... A waste--" The rest of his complaint was lost in the clinking of glass upon glass.

"He'll wear himself out soon enough," Hycath replied. At some point, he'd moved in between Silas's legs. "Or if he doesn't...what _does_ one do with a slave who won't behave?"

"You cane him, I suppose," said Ochamond, without interest.

"Now there's a thought." Hycath trailed a finger along Silas's thigh, almost reaching the cleft of his buttocks. "But I have a better idea."

Silas held his breath, biting down hard into the knot. He expected pain, almost welcomed it; this blind anticipation was its own form of torture. What he got was more cold oil, splashed carelessly over his hole, trickling down to form a puddle on the table. Silas gasped through his nose, whined low in his throat, and strained helplessly to close his legs.

Hycath was not nearly so slow and careful as he'd been before, plunging two of his fingers straight into Silas, letting him feel them inside him for a few long moments before he started to thrust them in and out. It was one sharp shock of pleasure after another, straight to his cock. It must be the poison that had Silas so tender, the poison that made him give a different sort of whimper when Hycath pulled both fingers out. For a few moments, at least, Silas had been so overwhelmed by the sensation that he forgot to be afraid.

Then something far more solid nudged at his dripping hole, wide and bulbous as it brushed against his thighs and buttocks.

Silas cried out into the gag, one final, desperate plea for mercy. Before, near mindless with panic, he'd begged them to fuck him. He'd thought he could take it, that nothing could be worse than a bleeding. This rounded plug of bone or glass or stone might not be any wider than the girth of a big man's cock, but pressed against him like this, while he was blind and bound and clenched up in terror, it felt like it would surely split him in two.

"Easy," Hycath said softly, stroking Silas's flank. Silas could hear the smile in his voice. "Easy now. You can't take this, you'll never take Ocha." Hycath guided the tip of the plug with a finger, pushing it patiently forward. Gradually, excruciatingly, Silas did begin to stretch around it. His muffled whines of protest grew higher and higher in pitch, his tears flowing once more as his body strained to accommodate the plug at its widest. But it must truly be round, because once the worst was over, it swiftly slipped inside with an audible squelch.

Silas's relief wasn't to last. Hycath continued to press deeper into him, and his sore hole began to stretch and burn around a new intrusion. He could imagine the shape of the plug now, one sphere strung after another; how many would it be? How long would this go on?

But his body was quickly growing accustomed to it, and after each new bulb was fully inside, the next entered him more easily. The stretching in itself, the constant slick stimulation against his rim, the end of the plug probing deep at some sensitive spot; each became a new spark of pleasure. Instead of closing his legs, Silas soon fought to spread them wider, his hips twitching and jerking as much as the straps allowed. And between his legs, he felt himself growing hard in earnest.

When the last of the plug was finally inside him, Hycath tapped at the protruding end of it with his finger, jostling it within Silas. It was so big, so _much._ Silas's cock bobbed between his legs in time with his uneven, shuddering breaths. He was so hard now that it ached, almost as much as his hole. If only someone would rub him, stroke him, grant him some relief.

Silas didn't understand. He didn't understand what sort of ritual this could be, or if it was simply torture in the guise of magic. He didn't understand how any poison, no matter how strange and potent, could force him his cock into hardness against his will, and make him long for the attentions of men that he should, _did,_ hate more than anything else in this world.

Silas began to sob in earnest, the indignity of it all too much to bear, and the blindfold soon grew heavy as it soaked up his tears. But he'd stopped moving much at all; every time he did, the plug moved with him.

"See?" Hycath slipped out from between Silas's legs, giving his thighs a last pat as he passed. "Now he's perfectly tame."

"Hmm," grunted Ochamond. "You've made a mess of him."

A cloth passed over Silas's belly and chest, wiping it clean of its sheen of sweat. Then it dipped between his legs, mopping up the excess oil. Though he was blind, Silas thought it must be Ochamond leaning over him now, though he never would have guessed the mage could be this gentle.

Then a cool something brushed against Silas's belly, making him flinch, sure it was the edge of the scalpel.

"Be _still_ ," said Ochamond peevishly. It didn't hurt; Silas didn't bleed. He felt a substance thicker than the oil being smeared in a circle around his navel. Then the circle became a long line, leading downwards and downwards, so tantalizingly close to the root of Silas's cock. Paint, Silas thought. Patterns on top of patterns. He really had become a canvas. The feather-light brushstrokes tickled and teased his chest next, while Silas flexed his fingers and curled his toes as he fought to suppress his squirming.

It was hard to tell when it came to an end; the paint prickled his skin as it dried, and Silas kept imagining the ghost of the brush, moving across every part of him. But eventually, it became clear that Ochamond was otherwise occupied. There was a rustle of robes, a clinking of metal clasps, the soft sound of many heavy layers of cloth crumpling onto the floor.

"You'd save yourself so much trouble if you worked naked from the start," he heard Hycath murmur, and then, "Ah."

"What?" Ochamond snapped.

"Been enjoying the show, have you?" Hycath's voice had lowered to purr again. "And here I thought I'd have to get _you_ ready."

"Be quiet."

"Don't be like that Ocha. Slave or no, he is a pretty thing. In fact--"

There was a tug at Silas's blindfold. It loosened, slipped away, and he blinked away the thick dew of his tears. He raised his head, saw himself stretched and obscene, saw the thin black lines that now covered his body, all converging just above his groin. There was a figure standing between his legs, one that he hardly recognized at first. Ochamond had stripped off his robe and everything that lay beneath it. He was narrow at the waist, wiry, _human_. He stood tall and straight-backed; why not? He bore no marks.

And he was hard. Seeing Ochamond's cock, the bulging pink head and the glistening length of it, Silas could have no questions about what happened next. He let his head fall back again, new tears falling in fat beads down his cheeks.

"That's better, isn't it?" Hycath murmured. "That would be the true waste. To hide those sweet blue eyes." He was pressed up against Ochamond's side, his own eyes half-lidded and clouded with lust, or something deeper than lust. It was the expression of an ardent worshiper, drinking in the sight of something truly holy.

"Whatever pleases you." Ochamond dipped his hand between Silas's legs, taking the base of the plug in a firm grip. It was almost worse going out than it was going in. Silas's body clung to the plug against his will, surrendering it only reluctantly. But this time, as each round bulb was pulled free, Silas was able to see it as well as feel himself stretching around it. It seemed impossibly long. How could such a thing have fit inside him?

Once it was out, Ochamond held the dripping plug between two fingers. Then he thrust it at Hycath with sudden impatience, leaning forward and taking hold of the bench on both sides. He paused for just a moment, adjusting the angle of his hips; Silas had that much time to bring himself brace himself. It was still too soon when Ochamond plunged forward, skewering Silas with more than half his length in one long thrust.

Perhaps Silas should be grateful. Without the oil Hycath had slathered him with, without the plug to open him wide, being taken like that might truly have broken him. As it was, it stole his voice; his jaw clenched around the gag, his throat worked, and he made no sound at all. There was pain, there was _heat_. Ochamond drove straight into him without hesitation or mercy. And all the while his eyes glinted, looking right through Silas, as if he really was just nothing but a serviceable hole.

At least Silas wasn't cold any more. He was burning up, from the inside out. And he no longer wanted at all for the warmth of touch. Ochamond jerked his hips with a sharp, mechanical precision, battering the same spot deep within Silas over and over and over again. He never faltered, not once, in his tempo; it was as if he followed some internal script to the very letter.

What should have been a torment had Silas's cock straining further towards his belly, leaking from the tip. With just a few more strokes, Silas would surely have release, one less ache, one less reminder of his utter disgrace.

As if sensing that Silas was close, Ochamond buried himself in Silas up to his balls, then came to a sudden stop, folding himself over the bench and over Silas. After that constant, inescapable piston motion, it was impossible for Silas to bear this stillness. He fought the straps, trying wriggle his hips, to reclaim even a little of that sensation. He was bound too tightly for it to be any use, and Ochamond didn't even seem to notice. Hycath was there at Ochamond's side, mouth at his ear, whispering.

"How is he?" Hycath asked, biting at the shell of Ochamond's ear. "Good?"

"Different." There was a breathless quality to Ochamond's voice.

"Better than me?" Hycath rumbled.

"No. Don't be--absurd." Ochamond closed his eyes, then lifted one arm from the bench. He opened his palm, beckoning jerkily with his fingers. "We're almost at the end. The scalpel."

Hycath fetched the tool from its shelf, laid it gently into Ochamond's open hand. Silas watched this process, trembling, though not from fear. Impaled like this on a cock, poison rushing still through his veins, he was now beyond pain, beyond fear. Or maybe he was just starting to go mad, after all this time, to the point that nothing mattered any longer. Let them cut him open. Let them do anything they wanted--

Ochamond was swift and clean with the knife; a nick to the chest, on Silas's right, opposite to the brand. Silas watched him bring down the blade and still hardly felt it. There was only a mild sting, his blood meeting the cold air. And afterward, after that single tiny cut, Ochamond just held the scalpel in a tightly clenched fist. Sweat was rolling down his face; from his exertions, or from holding himself back.

"Hycath," Ochamond groaned, through gritted teeth. "Do the rest."

"Me? You're sure?" Hycath took the blade from him with wide eyes and a tone of true surprise.

"You'll be steadier."

Hycath moved with unusual care, taking Ochamond's hand by the wrist. He pressed a brief kiss to the center of it, before Silas's disbelieving eyes. Ochamond's face grew suddenly flushed, and Silas gasped, squirmed, flexed his fingers; he'd imagined lips pressing against his own palm. And when Hycath slashed the scalpel across Ochamond's hand, Silas felt that as well, as Ochamond hissed, unconsciously thrusting even deeper into him in his pain.

Blood, so bright, so _red_ , trickling down Ochamond's wrist. Silas was mesmerized by the sight, briefly forgetting to breathe. So mages really could bleed. Here was proof of it.

Ochamond brought his palm down upon Silas's chest, right atop his cut. Their blood mixed, mingled; they flowed into each other. And the thrusts began again, shallower now, though no less regular and even. They hardly mattered--Silas had been set alight with pain, or perhaps with pleasure; there was no telling anymore which was which. Whatever it was, Silas surrendered to it completely, giving a final soft sob before going limp within his bonds. Ochamond spilled in him then, a sudden hot burst that made his vision explode in a delirious riot; he saw brilliant reds, pale blues, vicious greens.

At the heel of all the colors was black, so deep and soft, drawing him into its embrace.

Blind, lost, nameless, he found release in darkness. He was wracked by his climax, wave after wave of pleasure, his cock still pumping long after his seed had stopped spurting out. This never-ending peak would wring him dry, until there was nothing left of him. _Master, please,_ he thought, though he was too far gone to know what he was pleading for.

Master drew out of him at last. Ochamond drew out of him at last. And that was the end. Of the ritual. Of everything.

Slowly, shape and color began to return to Silas's world. He could see and feel again, though he lacked the strength to even lift his head. A hand-shaped patch of blood was drying on his chest. His own come was cooling on his belly. His hole was swollen, dripping, throbbing with every weak and unsteady breath he took.

And the haze that had fallen over him was lifting; he must have rid himself of that poison as he came. But the memories remained. Silas recalled just how he'd thrust his hips, struggled to spread his legs wider, pleading so pathetically for any scrap of warmth. So a potion was all it had taken for the mages to turn him into nothing but a beast in rut.

No one who'd known Silas before the collar would have recognized the debased thing that he'd become.

Silas's eyes burned, but he was beyond tears. If either of the mages looked at him now, his humiliation would be complete. He could imagine the sort of sight he made, still bound and spread wide, Ochamond's come slowly leaking from his hole.

But the two mages were no longer paying Silas the slightest mind.

Ochamond leaned against a wall; he'd wrapped himself in his outer robe, but his thin, trembling legs were still visible below. Hycath stroked at his face and hair, humming softly. Then he knelt, retrieving something from the floor and holding it up to one of the magelamps. It was an orb of power, a smaller one, fitting easily into the palm of his hand. When Silas had first seen it, as he was dragged into the room, it had been clear and empty. Now it was a near solid black--the thick, dark substance imprisoned within was subtly seething, seeming on the verge of bursting through the glass.

All of that, Silas realized, was something that had been taken from him. This time, it wasn't his blood that had been stolen for the sake of the magic. That writhing, angry blackness--he couldn't even put a name to it. But he felt an emptiness where it had been, all the same.

"Incredible," Hycath breathed. "Before, we were lucky to collect a third of this. Ocha..."

"It's just as you said," Ochamond murmured. His head drooped in clear exhaustion, but his eyes glittered strangely whenever they caught the light. "This time, I didn't have to hold back."

"Do I get some credit, then? Since it was my idea. I--" Before Hycath could finish the thought, Ochamond was upon him. Silas watched, vaguely sickened, but unable to close his eyes, unable to turn away from the display before him; it was like a glimpse through a mirror into an entirely different world. Hycath melted into Ochamond, who clutched at him tightly, possessively. The two couldn't seem to get enough of each other, and parted only when they needed to pant for breath.

"The experiment, Hycath," Ochamond said, with some urgency. "We must repeat it at once."

" _Now_? _"_ Hycath groaned, though he grinned broadly through it.

 _"_ Very soon _._ If we can collect this amount of energy...regularly, _reliably_ _,_ without killing the subject..."

Hycath's laughed, clear and bright as a bell.

"Ocha," he said. "If you can pull that off again, those musty bastards in the Crimson Guild are going to regret tossing you out for the next couple of centuries."

Ochamond, though winded, seemed to grow stronger by the second. He strode towards the bleeding table, towards Silas. He circled all around it, his eyes roving over Silas's stained and tainted body without either disgust or pity. He was _interested_. That was all.

"Three hours of recuperation time should be sufficient," Ochamond announced. "Then we begin again." His lip twitched, some clumsy approximation of a smile. And then he reached out his hand, giving Silas's head a pat. Silas closed his eyes, wishing for sleep, or better yet for oblivion. He knew that he would be allowed neither. Not for a long, long time. However much he begged--however much he prayed--

"The slave performed well, after the start," Ochamond admitted. "Far beyond my expectations."

"Told you he'd be worth keeping," Hycath said, with the purest of self-satisfaction.


End file.
